


Final Destination

by mypassionfortrash



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Driving, F/M, Hospitals, Roger's a struggling musician by night and a dentist by day, i'm not even sorry, modern!AU, this is going to be really sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mypassionfortrash/pseuds/mypassionfortrash
Summary: Roger's been playing the Friday night open mic night at Sandy's Bar for as long as you can remember, but when he's about to throw in the towel, you give him the push that he needs to pursue his dreams.
Relationships: Roger Taylor (Queen)/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	Final Destination

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing a brand new fic a few weeks ago, and I was originally going to just post this in one go, but it's taking forever. I've split it into two parts, with the next part coming soon. 
> 
> It's inspired by the song, 'Final Destination' by The Cross, as well as this incredible artwork from one of my favourite artists in the fandom: https://toviatoris.tumblr.com/post/624650483384156160
> 
> Thank you for reading, any and all feedback is very much appreciated! Have a great weekend :)

“And can you tell me how it happened?”

No, no he couldn’t. Everything that led up to that moment was a blur to Roger. The pulsating gash on his temple didn’t help him think any faster either.

“Mr Taylor, do you understand how serious this is? They’ve just sent in a crash cart for your girlfriend.”

“I know that,” Roger sighed, thumbing at the torn fabric of his jacket. “Can you at least give me some time, officer? Please.”

The officer tucked his little black book away in his back pocket and peered into the room behind Roger. “Alright,” he said, “but when they stop working on your girlfriend, you’re gonna start talking. Don’t go anywhere. You could be looking at second degree murder.”

Roger’s feet felt so heavy with guilt that he could barely turn around to look at the mess he had made. He caught a fleeting glimpse of it. A crowd of doctors in gowns and masks. Shocks and blood. The same blood that he still wore. And then the blinds were snatched closed.

Roger sank back down into his seat and took a deep breath, trying to get his story straight. It never rained in California, but when it did, it poured. He couldn’t help but laugh at the irony.

And then he noticed the exhausted looking doctor lingering on the periphery.

* * *

“Just so you know, for what it’s worth, I thought you were amazing.”

Roger slammed the boot of his car closed and turned towards the voice that caught him off guard. Drawn and spent from another lacklustre gig, he screwed up his features. “What?”

“I work behind the bar in there,” you said, awkwardly jabbing your thumb at the neon sign in the distance. “You probably… we’ve never spoken. But I always thought you were great.”

His eyes regained a hint of their sparkle. “Really?”

“Is it true that you’re quitting?” You moved closer; pulling the lines around his eyes and the grey hair at his temples into focus. He seemed older, a little frayed around the edges, now. A stark contrast to how he looked on stage.

“It gets demoralising after a while,” he said, leaning back against his car. “Might as well cut my losses.”

You stood beside him, folding your arms. “Is this the only thing you do?”

He huffed, blowing a strand of hair upright. “I make a good living as a dentist.”

You couldn’t contain an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah, it’s a joke,” Roger sighed.

“You’re far too talented to be a dentist.”

“What do you do, besides working in that dump?”

“Uni. Not by choice or anything,” you began. “My parents didn’t care what I studied as long as I went. But what’s anyone gonna do with an Art History degree anyway?”

Roger shrugged. “Suppose it’d be interesting.”

“I’m researching every artist that used cobalt pigments in their paintings,” you stated.

Lightening the mood, Roger tipped his head back and pretended to snore. As you giggled away, he looked at you – really looked at you, studying every detail. He was clumsy when he next spoke: “Are you on a break or anything?”

“No, I’m finished for the night,” you said, pulling the collar of your jacket up against the midsummer night’s breeze. “Hopefully I’ll make the last bus.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” he smiled.

Sitting in his car, Roger watched you in his wing mirror, huddled up in the bus shelter across the street. He should have been at home, in bed with his wife. Resting up for another day of eyeing up incisors and tugging out molars. But he had to make sure. Responsibility and a streak of intrigue kept him parked up outside Sandy’s Bar with the rain beating down on the roof of his old Jaguar for far longer than he should have. He knew that you knew he was there. And he knew that you knew that the last bus of the night was long gone. He shook his head at your stubbornness, but decency made him pull up right in front of the bus shelter.

“I think you’ve missed your bus,” Roger said.

“No shit.”

“Need a lift?”

“You know,” you said, hopping in beside him, “My mum told me never to get in a car with a stranger.”

“Wise woman.”

“But given the circumstances, I’ll take a lift.”

You and Roger said in silence as he drove. Ten minutes had passed before Roger spoke. “Where did you say you lived again?” he asked.

“I didn’t. Fuck.”

“Care to divulge that information? I’d take you back to my place, but I don’t think my wife would be particularly happy about that.”

“I never realised you were…” Your gaze trailed down to the gearshift – where his left hand was elegantly draped – searching for a band of metal around his finger. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

“Shit!” Roger hissed, reaching into his pocket. “I take it off when I play.”

“So that you get more groupies?” you joked. “Because I don’t think that’s going to work at Sandy’s.”

Roger slipped the ring around his finger and kept his eyes on the road. “It’s not that.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It just annoys me.”

“It’s another half hour from here, by the way.”

“What?”

“My flat’s another half hour from here.”

“Wish I hadn’t bloody bothered now,” Roger joked.

“I mean, if you drop me off somewhere, I can walk the rest of the way. It’s no problem.”

With that suggestion, the car swerved slightly off course, but Roger was quick to react. “Indeed you won’t! It’s pissing down and anything could happen to you.”

“I’ve done it a hundred times.”

“And all it takes is one night for you never to come home again. I’m driving you.”

“Well,” you began, taking your phone from your jacket pocket, “we’re going to need decent music.”

The light in Roger’s eyes shifted down to the obnoxious glare from your phone. “And what’s that for?”

“Aux duty.”

“Never heard of it,” Roger said. “There’s some tapes in the glovebox.”

“You really are a dinosaur.” Opening the glove compartment, stacks of cassettes clattered out on to the floor. One by one, you picked them up and examined them. Billy Idol. INXS. Fleetwood Mac. Springsteen. Petty. “Do you listen to anything from before 1990?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Music was better then.”

You held up Born in the USA. “And you were how old, exactly, when this came out?”

“Let me think. That came out in ’84, so I must have been… Four.”

“Imagine being such a smart four year old to perceive such greatness,” you said, slipping the tape in the deck. “Is that why you have this old banger, too?”

“The XJS is a classic!”

“It’s a banger. Listen to it. It sounds like something’s being strangled under there. I thought you made a decent living as a dentist.”

“I do but–“

“–things were so much simpler in the eighties!”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“You’ve got to listen to some modern music! You’ve got to engage! You’re 40 and everyone knows it!”

“No thank you.”

The silence continued for another twenty minutes, before you started directing Roger towards your block of flats. But in your head, you were dreaming up all the reasons why Roger’s music career wasn’t a lost cause.

Finally, the car ground to a halt outside your place.

“PSSSSSHT: This service terminates here. Please mind the gap when alighting from this Jaguar XJS,” Roger announced with a hollow smile.

But you couldn’t laugh. Deep down your heart just broke for him. All the way home you had convinced yourself that he was better than the life he had, and that there was still time for him. But you couldn’t bring yourself to verbalise it. So, you reached for the door handle and thanked him politely.

And then you turned back to him.

“Roger?”

“Yeah?”

“Give it one more go. Please.”

“I’ll think about it.”

* * *

The Friday shift at Sandy’s couldn’t have gone any slower. An endless stream of pretenders took to the stage to pour their hearts out to the empty room. But still you stayed put behind the bar with tired eyes and aching legs, eyeing up the door just in case he decided to show.

Sure enough, at two minutes to midnight, like a vision, Roger wandered in. Head down, guitar case in hand. Enough to make your heart swell.

Truth be told, he just wanted to get this over and done with. One last rodeo for the girl he had spent his whole week dreaming about. He found her endearing. Giving her a nod and a coy smile, he wandered over to the small stage at the back of the room.

None of the stragglers really noticed him as he began to play, but you did. And somehow, that was enough for him. He kept his eyes on you the whole time, clinging on to the sight of you like you were the last little rag of his dignity.

And then a tall, burly looking guy practically dragged you out of his sights.

The last of Roger’s set fizzled out and he packed up his guitar. His hand was already on the door and his eyes were trained on his ancient Jaguar when he heard it above the regularly-scheduled eighties playlist: “I pay you to serve customers, not eye up some old has-been.”

Roger sighed and turned back, searching for the source of the voice.

“And I suppose the old pervert likes this?” It continued.

He followed the sound to the hallway behind the bar. Where the brute from before had you pinned against the wall.

“What the fuck’s the point in getting these out,” he said, tugging at the neckline of your blouse, “if you’re not going to pay attention to the fucking punters? Do you have any idea how rude that is, you ungrateful little–“

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Roger said, stepping behind the bar. His face was scarlet and his knuckles white as he clutched at the handle on his guitar case.

“Roger, don’t,” you pleaded. “This isn’t worth it.”

“You heard the lady,” the man said. “She’s not worth it.”

Roger’s eyes flitted between you and the brute, before a steely resolve settled on his features. “Your shift ended ten minutes ago. You’re gonna miss your bus,” Roger said quietly. “If you’re not out of here in five, I’m coming back for you.”

With a minute to spare, Roger spotted you sprinting across the street, holding your denim jacket above your head to shield you from the downpour. The weight on his shoulders seemed to lift; whether that was because he was no longer duty bound to get into a fight that he was sure to lose, or because you were safe to wait for the last bus home. And he felt an inexplicable pull as he watched you sink down into a seat in the bus shelter. Suddenly he wanted to know more; everything if you’d let him.

So, just like the Friday before, Roger pulled up in front of the shelter and cranked down his window. “This is probably better than the bus,” he smiled.

“You don’t have to, really,” you said, trying to be polite.

“Where else are you going to listen to shit music like… I don’t know, Status Quo? I heard you were my biggest fan, too.”

That earned a giggle from you. By the looks of things, you were, indeed Roger’s biggest fan. And the warmth that radiated from Roger’s little car made your soaked skin yearn to be home and dried, rather than sit on the number 24 for an hour. It leaked and smelled like wet dog, after all. “Fine.”

“Was that your boss back there?”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“He sounded like a right prick. I was due giving him a smack,” Roger said, speeding off down the street. “He’s got no right talking to you like that.”

You pressed your head up against the cold glass and watched it fog up and obscure the raindrops. The sigh that escaped you might have been the world’s most desperate. “I’m just lucky to have a job. People like me are ten a penny, and people know it.”

“Well, that’s bullshit if ever I’ve heard it. I hope you’re quitting.”

“Can we talk about this some other time?”

“You deserve better.”

“So do you. But here we are.”

The awkward silence between you and Roger was suffocating. It paralysed you to the point of not wanting to speak for the duration of the trip. Until your stomach grumbled, earning you a concerned look from Roger.

“Don’t start,” you warned him.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“I had toast for lunch.”

“And that was…”

“Nearly thirteen hours ago.”

You hadn’t even finished the sentence, but Roger’s car swerved in the road and into the next junction. “Where are we going?”

“I’m buying you dinner. And a midnight snack for myself. You’ve got to look after yourself. There’s no way you can concentrate on uni and work if you don’t.”

“Alright, dad.”

Just before you returned to sulking with your face pressed against the window, Roger rummaged in the storage compartment in the door beside him and dangled a cassette between his slender fingers. “Here,” he said, “stick this on.”

“I wish you listened to modern music,” you said, switching out the tapes.

“And I wish you would have pressed rewind before you did that.”

Just as Rumours by Fleetwood Mac started to play on the stereo, the bright yellow arches of McDonald’s glowed against the night sky like a beacon. But you groaned at the thought of having to force down a belly full of grease.

“I’d take you home, but I don’t think the wife would like me cooking dinner for a complete stranger at midnight. Not that I can cook. Neither can she…”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned taking me home.”

“Really?” Roger said, pretending not to notice.

“Is your wife nice?”

“Dom? Yeah, she’s lovely. Very no nonsense.”

“Are you happy?”

“With my wife or in general?”

“Both.”

Roger pulled into the drive-thru before he could answer your question. “What are you having?” he said, stopping short of the speaker.

“Six nuggets with barbecue sauce and a chocolate milkshake,” you said, producing a fiver from your jacket pocket.

Roger pretended not to notice the money as the car crept towards the speaker.

“Welcome to McDonald’s, can I take your order?”

Roger cranked down the window and leaned out. It was clear he didn’t do this much. He spoke like a Brit on holiday in a foreign country. “I’ll have… two chocolate milkshakes, twenty chicken nuggets with barbecue sauce… and bung some chips in there, will you?”

“No problem, pay at the next window.”

When you were safely parked up and Roger was busy distributing the contents of the brown paper bag between you, you took the opportunity to press Roger again for more information about his wife. “What’s she like?”

“Who?”

“Your wife. Dom or whatever.”

“We were really happy when we got married. But it’s just like everything else. Now she looks at me like I’m the biggest disappointment she’s ever seen. Is that good enough for you?” he chuckled through a mouthful of chewed up chicken nugget. The watery sheen in his eyes gave him away. Painfully aware, he tried to look at anything but you.

“I don’t think you’re a disappointment.”

“You don’t know me. If you did, I would be.”

“I don’t understand why you feel like this,” you said. “Look at you. You look amazing – for a man your age. And you’re talented. Probably loaded, too.”

“I just feel like I’ve been forced into this normal kind of life that I’m not doing too well with. I never wanted a normal life, but I had to go through the motions for Dom’s benefit. Young love,” Roger huffed. “At least we never had kids. She hates me for that, too.”

“I feel your pain about the normal life stuff, though,” you said.

Roger just nodded and waited for you to explain yourself, just content with having someone to talk to. “I mean,” you continued, sipping your milkshake, “I was a smart kid at school. Really smart. But I always got by and I never learned how to put in the effort. And it was never a question of ‘if’ I got into uni. It was ‘when.’ So now I’m stuck on a course that I don’t like, can’t change and can’t drop out of. Because if I do, I’m certain my parents would disown me after all the effort they went to to help me out.”

Roger cocked his head to the side and leaned it on the headrest, observing every intricate detail of you. “Why did you choose Art History, then?” he asked.

You were so matter of fact about it. Bitter, even. “It’s for people who like art but can’t be fucked painting anything.”

“So, it’s a Mickey Mouse degree?”

“How dare you!” Sitting bolt upright, your jaw dropped to the floor in mock horror. “I’m allowed to say it. Not you!”

“Thought so,” Roger smirked. “Right, change the tunes, and I’ll get rid of the rubbish.”

You should have known it would happen, but when you pulled the handle on the glove box, its contents clattered to the floor again. Only this time, you had seconds spare to actually study Roger’s collection. He had everything you expected him to. Mostly by bands that your dad was a fan of, that he got you into when you were just a child. They’d get on well, actually, you thought. But one particular box caught your eye. It had a generic plain white sleeve on it, and, written on the spine in thick, black marker pen was one word: ‘DEMOS.’

Your heart raced as you glanced out the window at Roger – who was trying to force your rubbish into an overflowing bin to no avail – and then back down at the tape. There was always something so captivating about his voice. You loved hearing him play. And maybe, just maybe, you might get to hear him sing any time you wanted. Maybe.

But maybe he needed that tape? Maybe he really was going to make a go of it? One last run at the big time? Or something better than Sandy’s?

But as Roger’s footsteps returned, panic overcame you. And you stuffed the cassette into your jacket pocket.

* * *

Roger returned to Sandy’s every Friday night for the next month to repeat your ritual. Gig, food and the journey home. His audience grew week by week, too. But he hadn’t realised that you were the one drawing in the crowds.

Behind the scenes, you filled your time with listening to his demo tape. You had managed to find a tape deck in the first week, and then engineered a way to make digital copies in the second. By the third week, without Roger knowing, he had a small online following. It was mostly girls your age or dads wanting to relive their youth. And there was something really ironic about that, you thought, as you and Roger grew painfully close and increasingly candid with each other. Maybe there were people out there who felt like the two of you did. Lonely, but only for each other.

Your boss even had the good grace and self-restraint to leave you alone while Roger was around. You didn’t hate showing up to work anymore. Especially not on Fridays.

But the fourth week was when everything changed.

For the first time in all the time you had worked there, Sandy’s Open Mic Night was queued out the door and into the car park. People from all walks of life had congregated just to see Roger.

And the man himself didn’t quite know what to make of it. Sure, his confidence had skyrocketed since more people started showing up. But to him, he was still just a second-rate pub act; he believed that after being told it for years by the people around him. And now, with just him and his guitar, somehow, people actually noticed him. They paid attention.

Roger trundled through another set, disguising his nerves with wit and self-deprecating humour that the crowd lapped up. He even cracked a few wife jokes that seemed harmless to anyone else, but you knew there was venom behind his words. He captivated and enthralled, and some of the more dedicated members of the audience even began to sing along. But Roger never questioned just how they knew the words. This was all he ever wanted.

But something was amiss at the end of the night.

Leaning against Roger’s car after your shift, you waited. Tapping your foot. Checking the time on your phone. He was late.

If you had known he had plans, you would have got the number 24 home. But you needed to stick around, if only to see the product of your hard work and determination.

Finally, just shy of one in the morning, Roger emerged from the bar with a stout looking throwback to the seventies who tried to keep up with him. Before they reached you, you managed to catch a line when they parted ways halfway across the car park. “I’ll see you on Monday and we can hash out a deal.”

The grin on Roger’s face as he sprinted up to you could have lit a thousand cities. “You’ll never guess what!” He began, taking you by the shoulders. “That was a rep from EMI. Fucking EMI! He’s been to every gig since he heard my demo and now, he wants to manage me!”

Your heart could have leapt out of your chest right that second with the joy you felt. You so desperately wanted to tell him everything, how proud you were of him; and maybe even to kiss him. Instead, you settled for him cocooning you in a hug. “I’m so fucking proud of you,” you sighed against his chest. He smelled like expensive aftershave and cigarette smoke and you wanted to stay like that forever. “It’s finally happening for you.”

“I get the feeling you had something to do with it.”

You pulled away with your mouth dropped open. Ready to defend yourself. Somehow, he knew.

“I mean,” he said, taking a step back. “I don’t know what it is, but ever since I met you, you’ve just brought me so much… luck. Good things are happening to me because of you.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. “I guess I’m your lucky charm, then.” But you reasoned that you should probably come clean. “I have something to tell you.”

Roger was a million miles away, on his own euphoric plain. But when you spoke, his gaze snapped back to you and his brow furrowed.

“I took your demo tape. That second night you drove me home. It fell out of the glovebox and it sounds stupid but I just wanted to hear your voice when I’m not at work. And it was amazing. More people needed to hear it. So… I put it online. Set up a bit of a social media presence. Because you’re kind of a dinosaur. And I get it you’re probably mad–“

“Mad?” Roger grinned, moving closer to you again. “I’m mad I didn’t find you sooner. Thank you. I mean that.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Are you kidding me? I had no idea where to start with any of this and you,” he said, “you’ve done more for me than anyone else.”

“Oh, thank god,” you said, running your fingers through your hair. “Because I just felt really guilty about it.”

“I’m going to need to pay you back for this.”

“How?”

“Dinner? I’ll even let you have the last chicken nugget this time.”

“I think I’ve got some fancy wine at my place… if you wanted to celebrate properly?”

“Wine and chicken nuggets. Classy.”

Roger wandered around your poky little living room with one hand wrapped around the handle of a mug filled with wine, and the other massaging his neck as he drank in every tiny detail of your existence. He had only known you for a month – and there was still so much that he didn’t know – that much was clear from the photos of your friends on the sideboard, and the prints on the walls from old films you loved to watch whenever you felt down. But most of all, he loved your record collection. When you ducked out to go to the bathroom, he took the opportunity to peruse the impressive expanse of vinyl in front of him. He was sure half of these were older than he. And he laughed at the absurdity. You that chastised him for the tape deck in his car and for listening to the same albums you had on display in front of him.

He slipped the threadbare copy of ‘Born in the USA’ out of the liner, and popped it on to the pristine turntable. He knew the exact groove to lower the needle on to. After all, he had spent so much of his teenage years doing just that, waiting for someone to come along and help him live out the romantic dreams in his head. That old record wore out long Dominique walked into his life. He almost forgot what it felt like.

Roger wondered if maybe, just maybe, you thought about the same things.

His back seemed to straighten when he sensed you behind him, realising he had been lost in his own head for far too long. He shook it off and turned to you.

“Do you want to dance?” you asked.

“I’d love to,” Roger said, feeling his heart begin to race. All he wanted was to melt into you. His hand on your waist, your hand in his, just wasn’t enough as you moved slowly through ‘I’m On Fire.’

He was dangerously close to you. The sweet spot between his neck and his shoulder blade radiated warmth and felt like heaven and you just couldn’t resist leaning in, and pressing your lips ever so gently to his skin.

But panic struck like a bolt of electricity and forced you apart. Roger, with a confused look, kept his baby blues glued to the floor as he rubbed the spot where your lips had been.

And you – you just stood aimlessly in the middle of your living room waiting to be told off. The shame burned and bludgeoned any romantic spark between you. You were so feeble when you spoke, sounding as pathetic as you felt. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t even look at you when he charged past you and left.


End file.
